


Satisfactory Performance

by APendingThought



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Breathplay, Hurt No Comfort, Intimidation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Object Insertion, Objectification, Other, Ownership, Panic, Public Humiliation, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Shiro Abuse, Slavery, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 05:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15089588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: Sendak's first encounters with the human named Shiro are purposed to orient fresh meat to the ways of the Galran empire. Shiro learns quickly. He has no choice.





	1. Agenda

**Author's Note:**

> No kid gloves here. Shiro has been brutalized so much by the show as is, figured why not take it up a notch.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Sendak.

Sendak never relished these proceedings.

Regulated inspections or other paltry obligations diverting him from the field were, in his estimation, abysmal wastes of time. Though none dared question his loyalty to the Empire after surviving its methods thus far, he had begun to settle into the comfortable assumption that legwork was below his rank.

The holding docks were brimming with unprocessed conquest. Of these wretches in their filthy holding pens, some percentage had been taken by force while others had fought only to be crushed by the might of a race far superior to their own. Others had been traded for momentary liberty, betrayed by their leaders into a lifetime of servitude. Very few went willingly into service for the Combat Pits but the few that did faced worse than a quick, showy slaughter before a blood-hungry mass.  
Little ever changed save for the traffic, the exchange of lives and liberties. In the Empire’s long history, only a handful of species had been traded exclusively by the Galra. This number had grown to a wave of thousands as their power grew, new blood to quench the roaring bloodlust of the Pit. Nubile bodies fashioned only for ripping and shredding and tearing for pleasure. 

Some had it better than others.

Utterances murmured softly in his presence, hardly daring the breath they died on. He was recognized up and down these holding cells. Rather like a father to a line of faulty pups. Fresh captives reached out, begging vocally for their lives. Smaller creatures—their young perhaps-- whimpered, others sent up wails only to be silenced by the warning hum of a Taser spear. 

None of this interested Sendak. These were fragile beings, pieces of paper to be crumpled and discarded. He craved something more worthy. New, hot blood of a different hue than that spattered on the boots of his playthings.

On the whole, however, not much holds Sendak’s attention very long.

Different races responded very much the same to bondage. There was little sport in conquering the ancient people--Balmeras with their thick hides cut from stone--might endure some paltry games in the Pits. The Hydraens with their toxic barbs were an intrigue when beset against one another. His subordinate Qualrak particularly enjoyed that type of spectacle. Rarer breeds were kept away from the Pits, reserved only for his Lordship’s private use. Emperor Zarkon himself was known on occasion to select from the stock of unique specimens.

"We are honored by your presence, Liege." The dullard overseer of this pen—Qualrak—saluted him formally.

A temperate sneer curled Sendak’s lip. "You had better be. I witnessed several inexcusable defaults among your handlers within minutes." He ground his fangs audibly to communicate his displeasure. "Emperor Zarkon will be amused to learn how securely his winnings are supervised."

The groveling began immediately, exacerbating his irritation. 

"Your forgiveness, Mighty One. We have yet to update regulations for the--"

Sendak waved his hand in dismissal, unwilling to hear the drone’s excuses. For his own sake, the lower officer makes an offer in the form of a report.

“There was recently arrived a new shipment of prisoners! Some from worlds I have yet to locate on my outer maps, Lord! The handlers have not yet experienced--”

“Where is your list?”

The sniveling creature hands him the illuminated data block, displaying recent acquisitions and their placements. Qualrak, sensing a deflection from his ineptitude, prattles on. “Three Earthlings arrived in the last cycle. Three males, according to the Druids. We were fortunate to acquire them in all identified stages of human development.”

“Hm.” Sendak kept his thoughts exclusive.

“The elder was relocated to the labor camp on Hezlar as he was deemed unsuitable for matches. We retained the younger specimens specifically for your arrival, Lord, if you wish to assess their compatibility….?”

 

“Don’t waste my time.” Sendak commanded. “You are aware of what happens when I tire.”

Qualrak leapt to usher his superior to the holding cells, indicating that he was indeed extremely aware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always wanted to venture down a Shiro in Galra clutches abuse trope. Before they threw him into the arena and made him a champion, what kind of professional development opportunities was he dragged, kicking and gagged-screaming into? 
> 
> A question for science.


	2. Orientation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sendak inspects his stock. Shiro is put to use.

At times in his duties, Sendak found that he must reinforce the importance of procedural review. Demonstrations were key, not only to prisoners, but to the handlers expected to condition them. Perfection, he has come to learn, was never a consistent standard across galaxies. This is a glitch he sincerely hopes the Empire will eliminate someday.

The two humans sit naked and chained together in the gloom of the holding cell. A cursory glance at the charts told him they have already been through initial processing. The obvious markings on their flesh, glowing bright red and angry against their fragile hides, affirm that. 

The youngest, he remarked, was a stripling. Thin, weak and hardly past infancy. It will perish on its own in the cells with no assist from the Pit. He might yet prove useful to the elite as exotic meat, perhaps, but Sendak felt some responsibility in keeping it alive. So few Earth specimens fell into the Empire’s hands that ripe. 

Sendak’s gaze shifted to the elder. From where he stood, Sendak could clearly view his sex--diminutive and soft between his legs--but unquestionably male. He is pale all around save for the shock of dark hair matted against his skull. His eyes slate grey as delved ore, muscles already defined and developed for action. Clearly he is of a stock different than his companions—this human has been trained for battle or whatever passes for battle on his planet. His spine has not yet been contorted by the restraints of their confine or treatment. Evidently, he’s required further restrictions, the muzzle over the proud head bringing an emergent spark to Sendak’s mood. Muzzles are enticing--they mean any number of things. Fangs, perhaps, or a treacherous tongue to be carved out slowly.

The thick leather gag restricted the human’s movements, coating most of his head and completely occupying his mouth. From the way his shoulders rise and fall shakily, it was no doubt an effort for the wretch to simply take in air. His shoulders were broad and solid, his limbs formed not so differently from his own. Clearly, this human’s occupation had been to serve with such a conditioned physique. 

Troublemakers were a break from the tedium of unchallenged submission. The vast majority cower at the merest drop of a spine cracker. Those needing restraint, still aware and angry at their circumstance, made prime candidates for the Pit.

Absently running an idle finger up and down the blade of his weapon, he watches the pair silently for a while, more to agonize the trepidations of Qualrak who, no doubt, expects multiple reprimands he cannot begin to fathom. Fortunately, Sendak’s mind lies elsewhere—focused on the quaking body of the man.   
Sendak observed the heave of the man’s chest as he breathed heavily. For a brief moment, he pondered the fantastical result of driving the barbed edge of his weapon through the pup’s throat, forcing this new insolent to observe as it bleeds out? How might such raw brutality affect a one such as this?

But there would be time to entertain such speculations later. First, the basics.

He lowers his weapon and steps closer to the shackled one. 

The prisoner’s inhalations came faster at his approach, wide eyes glaring from behind the muzzle. 

'You need to know,’ He addressed the human, and it quivered, unable to look up, likely not wishing to see the faces of more captors, 'the penalties for insubordination. What happens if you break the rules.’

Sendak watches the man as he swallows heavily, the hard granite of the cell floor pressing into his raw scrubbed knees, pumped air washing icily over his skin, making him squirm with cold.

'You’re not the first,' Sendak recited, 'and you won't be the last.” He flicked his gaze to Qualrak and his attendants, at attention in a silent watchful line. “But I think your handlers here have all been lax for a good long while, haven't they? Let things slide too far?' He ran his tongue along his teeth as he fully addressed the lesser ranking Galra. ‘Do not make the error of believing that since you are located on the farthest corner of Zarkon’s borders that his eye is not always upon you.’ Qualrak bristled with a mixture of apprehension and rage but did not commit the graver error of speaking. 

‘Your prisoners are out of line!’ The threat in Sendak’s tone sharpened. ‘You allow one such as this--‘he gestures to the shivering human. ‘any form of defiance? I should throw you to the Pit myself.’

At that moment all in the chamber stand petrified save the barely conscious young human who, if he is clever or extremely lucky, was already on his way to meet his maker.

His lip curled in a sneer, a smooth command as he nodded in the direction of the human pup. 

"Remove that."

When two sentries moved to drag the young one away, he noted how the bound one struggled! Urgent vocalizations from behind the gag are stifled by the choker. The smaller human has barely strength enough to fight and lets itself be dragged away but the larger man tries (and fails) to gain its feet, only to be reprimanded by the brutal strike of a spear. The young pup it has assigned itself to protect was gone and the anguished man now writhes in pain on the floor, shuddering from the consequence of his folly. 

Sendak sighed down at his captive in disappointment. 

“You've been with us now all of...what? Three cycles or more? Yet the reality of your circumstances has not been appropriately demonstrated?’

The bound man twitched slightly in response. Sendak lowered himself to eye level, gently coaxing the man’s chin up with the edge of his blade poised beneath his jaw. A thin line of blood welled. The human shakes so hard against it, the barest flick of his wrist creates a deeper indent to the delicate flesh. 

‘What would you say now, if you could speak?’ 

The man’s blood stands out a shocking red against his throat. Sendak expects no response but lingers a few seconds in his captive’s line of vision, if only to assure him that he is now the object of focus. As he rises, he makes sure his boot comes down forcefully on the lower spinal column of his prisoner. Marginal compliance is not permitted. The man gasps.

He walks behind the man’s body, now suppressing wrath concentrated and smoldering behind his eyes. The air is cold yet the man is sweating profusely, his too white skin taking on a sickly transparency. 

"John Smith. First Captain. Serial number 4826691.’ Sendak recites to the ceiling, stopping to listen for the halt in the pained breathing.

"Let me remind you again, soldier, that you are property of the Galra Empire, to be used or discarded at his Lordship's pleasure. Or think that you are the first Earth specimen in our holding?’

He shoves his ring beneath the terrified human’s nostrils, which flare in terror at the sight. A human knuckle bone, carved to fit, wraps around his thick index finger. “Yes, your kind has been conquered before. You are merely fortunate your planet holds little interest for the Empire at present.”

The man squeezed his eyes shut, panicked breathing starting and hitching in his chest. 

‘Most don't mind. That is the primary goal of processing.’ Sendak decided he was done talking for now.

Compared to the human’s skull, his hand is thick and huge when it grasps at the dark hair, tugging his head up, and now the human has a plain view of his captors, through the red mist that undoubtedly shrouds his vision. Sendak watches the man’s heart pulse visibly against his chest wall, sees the hollow flesh of his throat tremble as he swallows hard, clearly not wanting to let his emotions show. Not now. Not in front of them.

'This dung pile here didn't follow rules, did he?' Sendak growled, and the gathered handlers and superiors shook their heads earnestly in agreement. 

He stepped back, out of view, towards the back of the cell that the human has been made to kneel on for the past twenty minutes? Twenty hours? It matters not. But when the human tried to drop his head, it was yanked straight back up, forcing him to keep eye contact. Sendak roughly hoisted the limp body upward, slamming him into a seated position on the main control panel. Roughly, he dragged at his legs, wrenching them apart. The human uttered a sharp sound at the cold intrusion against his bottom. A quick inspection found his vulnerable entrance relatively unspoiled.

Sendak savored the pained whimpering, the widening eyes as he worked one thick, clawed digit into him.

'N-no-,' Words are strangled by the gag, a sharp jab with the knife to his hip silencing his protest.

'Quiet,' Sendak ordered, gruff accent rolling over the man, making him shiver even harder in submission. ‘I should not like to tear you indiscriminately.’

The human's entire body shook and convulsed uncontrollably as though he has a fever, whimpering loudly in pain when the curved nail drags accidentally against his inner walls. His face burned hot and red, nostrils flaring violently in and out as Sendak roughly drove another barb inside him with a grin. The human’s flesh in more tender and thinned here, dry and easily rent as paper. He will be bloodied before Sendak’s boredom window closed. The man is screaming well before the third digit breaches him.

“Yes. You will be quite useful to us after all.” He decides.


	3. Testing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro's limits are explored.

He liked to test fresh slaves.

Not interested in dialogue, he is content keeping the human’s tongue occupied and his limbs bound as per protocol. Stuffed with rough fabric or blocked by a holding dam fitted around his head. Whatever his handlers have found more conveniently in their reach. The language of his body is more relevant and far more revealing. He does not address the prisoner. Better to let him wonder. The man’s arms are bound tightly and none too comfortably for his bone frame, behind his back. All he can do, all he has permission to do, is breathe. Or something akin to that.

 

It was easy to command the human’s attention after starving it, easing the blade of his scimitar along the exposed edge of the man’s throat. He knew where the blood beat strongest, finding the vein too easily as the man strains against his bonds. The human's fear was heightened, pulse rabbit quick and visible beneath a hide as fragile as parchment. Sendak stilled his weapon just there, forcing him to control his breathing lest a surge drive the edge too deep. 

His chest wall heaves up and down, dark eyes burning, blinking now and then. Sendak studies him. There is no pleading in his gaze, no beg for release, though his heartbeat doubles in pace. Sendak pauses a moment, wondering how fast it could truly go before it would just simply stop. What limitations does the human hide? He’s already proven hardier than his compatriots. The young one had hardly lasted a washing in the prison baths.

 

He waited, allowing the man full leave to slip, to surrender, to give in to the terror of the unknown. 

But the man only met his gaze and held it. Defiance. 

The prisoner’s chest arched and his stomach tightened, bracing himself. Effort was taken to keep himself disciplined in the face of threat. Sendak was quietly impressed. His focus shifted to the human’s flaring nostrils, the only entryways through which life-sustaining oxygen was given leave to pass. 

Only then did the human truly begin to panic.

Too late, he sucked in a desperate breath, heavy and deep before a grotesquely oversized palm stopped up the precious channels. Immediately, Sendak felt the tiny hot ball of muscle beneath his chest respond with furious kicks against its rib cage, a sensation that must pain him. 

Although he was distantly respectful of the fact that he could not maintain this agony, Sendak was open to discovering just how long limits could exceed. The human’s body, he’d found, had surprisingly effective mechanisms faced with encroaching death--fantastical names such as adrenaline, atropine, endorphin--according to the Druids’ charts. This particular one’s physical make and station might grace him an advantage over the others. 

The body under him fights without permission, straining for the denied breath, uncaring when his throat pushes itself involuntarily into the razor held there, causing hot blood to well. Sounds at last escape him, small high-pitched vocalizations—rapid and desperate. Sendak is beyond pleased. He gives just a little, lets some air flow in.

 

A sharp desperate inhale pushes the human’s heart, already taxed, tripping over itself. It becomes clumsy, forgets its purpose, skips and starts. Sendak lets him feel the point of his sword as it digs into more exposed flesh, driving the sensation throughout his tortured body. The man’s eyes flutter at half-mast, darkening by degrees.

A new reaction captures his attention. Glancing down at the man’s sex, he finds it hot and hard, throbbing in time to his frenetic pulse. Fascinating. At the brink of death, did all humans react so? The man’s face darkens with heated blood, revealing his humiliation. Must be chemical interference if all of him is acting up.

The sentry flashes a warning sign. The human’s vitals are waning. 

He releases him and the man’s eyes roll back in his head, sagging bonelessly against his restraints. His chest heaved up and down, color resetting as he recovers. The thin, sticky line of blood at his throat trickled—unnoticed--down his chest in a violent streak. Sendak understood well the warrior’s instinct. He knows when a body is forced to shut out pain in order to survive. He’s seen fodder in the arena continue the bloodbath with limbs hacked and hewed to the bone, driven harder and faster to prevent themselves from falling under.

This human held potential. Despite his fragile shell.

Sendak withdrew, sheathing his blade back in its scabbard. 

Needs and wants are the finest tools. There are plenty of others yet to discover.


	4. Famine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro is invited to sup.

Sendak has laid out specific mandates for the order in which this meal is to be served.

The smell offends his nostrils. Earth resources from plundered storage hold little interest for him. To the earthling, however, sensory manipulation will be enough to break anything that remained of his fragile grasp on reality. 

Denying food is far simpler than breaking bones.

The trembling prisoner is lead in to the chamber by two guards. The edges of his mouth are raw and red from the gag which has been removed.

"Sit." Not an invitation.

Sendak watches the prisoner hesitantly comply. He is garbed now in the purple gladiator’s uniform of the slave pits. His wrists are tightly cuffed in front of him; fists clenched white in his lap. He lowers himself down with difficulty, a stony expression on his face. The red glare of Sendak’s Druid eye pulses over the human, waiting to see what will happen.

Nothing. The man’s body is already too weak to fight.

Silently one of the sentries moves to release the thick metallic cuffs. From the pained way the man's muscles continue to tense and flex at this action, he can assume it has been too long since he has been unrestrained.

The conditioning collar latched tight around his throat will assure no upstart. The smallest hint of aggression will result in instant unconsciousness or, if warranted, death. Of this the captive has been made already aware and he is appropriately terrified. 

The human's lips are wet, pale cheeks near translucent and gaze listless, devoid of any fire. Perfect.

His facial control becomes exponentially harder when Sendak motions for the table to be set.

Steaming plates of a curious white substance known colloquially as rice are laid out. The heavy cauldron of spiced brown curry (not dissimilar from the Galran native dish Tubo) is set before the wide-eyed man.

‘Wha--?’ Dazed, the human blinks, his throat working. His glassy eyes never leave the food. 

‘Eat.’ Sendak allows.

The weak, half-delirious prisoner hesitates for only a moment, nostrils flaring, and hands shaking. He is not merely hungry; he has been starved, denied rations for several quintants. His stomach does not even remember the taste of food. He attacks it desperately.

Sendak folds his large hands and watches with interest the grotesque display.

The wretch barely pauses long enough to breathe as he consumes whatever sustenance is placed before him. Like the animal he is, he scoops up large handfuls in his mouth with bare hands, soiling his face with abandon. Sendak smiles. He has already begun to like this human. 

He takes in a lungful of air as the man eats, noting the change in his scent. The sweat of fear, fast pumping blood forcing pheromones around him to sharpen into heady incense. His scent will continue to warp as the evening progresses. He is eager to inspect more closely

“Stop.” Sendak commands after the man has gorged himself, eyes nearly crossed at his fullness. The human’s chin and the front of his clothes are completely drenched. His breathing is rapid and heavy. A slight pinch on the trigger nerve of his collar is ample warning to still the frenzy. The prisoner collapses, heaving against the solid backing of the chair that supports him, shamefully dragging a hand across his stained mouth as though only now aware of his surroundings. He has let down his guard and does not know what to make of his fate.

“How do you feel?” Sendak purrs.

The human’s stomach produces clearly audible sounds, not gently re-stretched after so many days of little to no intake. His face contorts in agony, clutching weakly at his newly distended middle. Though his physique has been labeled prime according to their charts as well as biological frameworks for his species, this sudden reintroduction of nourishment now alarmingly takes its toll. The human groans, head rolling back as sharp pains subdue him. He shudders, struggling to keep down all he has just ingested.

May whatever Deity he prays to spare him if he loses THAT battle.

Dinner is hardly over.


	5. Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sendak invites a few dignitaries to the table.

He had been expecting company.

Ambassadors loyal to the empire have sent emissaries to the Arena, noted officers favored by High Command have been invited to this rare showing.

The Galran traditional cuisine has been prepped on huge platters. He has not bothered to change his garb for the occasion though many have arrived in formal dress. Wine has been poured. The guests are eager, whispers hover above gleaming trays of quivering live appetizers.

A hush fell when the human arrived.

The trophy’s skin has been rubbed with oil to mask his unhealthy pallor, turning it into an obscene glow. Four stewards bear him into the dining hall, kneeling on an oversized dais traditionally constructed for offerings of this stature. The man is hunched over in a pathetic attempt to conceal his nakedness. His shoulders are quaking. Muscular arms bound tight behind his back, a rounded gag wedged tight between his lips, all held in place by a strap locked over his head. Dark hair dampened by sweat fell across his eyes, framing the strap wound around his forehead. His gaze remains fixed on the dais he had been placed on.

He has every right to be terrified.

Ungently, he is thrust towards the center of the table, sending platters and dishes clattering to the floor Powerful thighs caught on the table’s slick surface where he froze trying to catch his shuddering breath. Two servants rush forward, roughly spreading the captive’s legs, forced open wide and exposed.

The crowd’s energy surges at the display, the smell of excitement and heat wafting up like smoke. The man makes a futile attempt to hunch into himself, all too aware that all eyes are on him.

“To the Might of the Galra!” A lesser Taltian diplomat stands with goblet raised, unable to contain his zeal. The party echoes this sentiment to aplomb but Sendak acknowledges him only briefly. His eyes are on his prize. He does not approve of the way this proud and powerful creature recoils from the crowd, does not like the way he has shrunk in on himself. No, this is no prize worthy of the Galra. 

He leans forward, sharply catching the man’s chin with the butt of his blaster, forcing his head up to face the gathered onlookers.

“Keep your chin up.” He warns.

 

Thickly, the man swallows and straightens his back. His heart thumps loud enough for all to hear, amplified in the tense quiet created by the spectacle. Sendak lowered his voice, speaking directly into the man’s ear.

“They can hear each sound you make, Human. Every tremor. Every pulse. Reveal fear and they will rend you limb from limb as you still breathe. Understood?”

The man freezes to his very lungs to communicate that he does.

Ambassador Rulf licks her huge maws with greedy excitement, gesturing towards the man’s prone body, held up in a mockery of defiance. The prisoner’s blood drains from his face, trembling lips whiter than chalk as her multitude of clawed talons rake down his chest.

“Do not the Galra believe that toying with food is a custom most unsanitary?” She inquires in her infuriating dialect.

“That one is not for eating, Ambassador.”

“It’s intoxicating,” Lord Ulrite whispers, using slight pressure from his own ceremonial blade, he forces the man’s head back, exposing his throat. “The smell, I mean.” He indicates hastily. Sendak observes, as does his guest, the pulse racing beneath the pale skin and he chuckles perversely. “I suppose he’s not been broken?”

“Not wholly.” Sendak smirks. 

“A recent acquisition?” A nomadic Spurlian chimes in. “I cannot recall the last time Zarkon displayed his bounty in such a fashion.”

“It matters not.” The Hydraen secretary extends a toxin-laced tentacle, caressing the man’s bare thigh and marveling at the way its caustic secretions mark his flesh, making the prisoner hiss and sweat in pain. His proud head did not fall though his breathing came noticeably faster to the delight of his audience.

Sendak’s guests are rarely inhibited, some reaching, others grabbing playfully at his flesh, remarking at the likeness of his shape in comparison to the frame of the Galran race themselves. Wine splashes across his thighs and chest only to be licked clean, sharp smacks applied when he winces and shivers in revulsion.

Paws press hard into his chest to wonder at the bruised coloration left behind. His nipples, dusky and rose-colored are teased, fondled and sucked. 

 

They trace the structure of his facial bones; put their mouths anywhere and everywhere. The man cannot protest or cry out. They listen to the gurgles of his flat, hard stomach, the frantic hiss of air as it bellows in and out.

When one Krulnaen requests an interior inspection, he is overruled. The human cannot be viewed from the inside without sustaining irreversible damage. His watering eyes forced open wide for their scrutiny. Every orifice is examined at length, the gag loosened and pried out only to have the man’s mouth filled and engorged by an overly thick appendage.

He is smelled, touched and tasted for well over Sendak’s customary allotment. They are completely fascinated by him. The tight cords of muscle at his forearms and throat, the hard pads of his feet, the sensitive reactions of the flesh between his legs. There is so much there that fascinates them.

The human endures as silently as he can, color changing from chalky white to hot, humiliated red. 

Hova, the Demassian, fondles the man’s sex, weighing its heaviness in her sharpened talons as the man squirmed and flinched. He cannot move, cannot escape what is being done to him. Dampness leaks freely out of the corners of his eyes, lines of sweat cutting into the sheen of oil coating his chest. His shoulders heave with unchecked rage and fear. He blinks dazedly, trying to distance himself from proceedings. He has no idea where this game begins or ends. 

The limits, however, have hardly been breached.

It was time that Sendak summoned the mage.

The shrouded servant clambered onto the table to stand over the captive, placing her foot hard between his shoulder blades. She forced him down until his face was pressed hard against the surface of the table, scattering plates and cups to the floor. Ignoring his muffled protest, with expert ease, she pried his legs apart and bared him wide open. 

Sendak observed thoughtfully as she explored him, not wholly familiar with human orifices. Satisfied that she has located a penetration point, she reached into her satchel and eases out the _lementhe_

The fringed jellylike organism had been favored for centuries by the nobility and those with means to afford one. Sendak thought the human was quite fortunate that this breed of _lementhe_ generates copious secretions to gentle its introduction. Other breeds are less accommodating, some irreversible while others potentially lethal.

A raw and ragged moan erupted from behind the gag as the mage spread him wider and inserted the pulsing creature inward and upward, deep into the man’s body. He writhed desperately against her hand as the organism worked its way inside and began to latch within him. Task completed, the mage vanished in a wisp of smoke and the crowd held its breath.

At first the human merely trembled, limbs twitching in heightened arousal. Suddenly he began to make soft groans, pulling against the cords of his bonds in desperation. Terror mixed with shame washed across his features and new sweat beaded on his skin. 

With another stifled gasp, his swollen sex throbbed between his legs, uncontrollable and leaking. A sudden motion from the _lementhe_ makes him suddenly silent, the creature having found fresh nerves and blood vessels to torment. 

When he started breathing again it grew more and more hectic, the rose coloring from his cheeks spreading down his shoulders and chest. Sendak watched him choke back the sounds of pleasure and writhe with abandon on the table. The crowd watched intently as he began to involuntarily push his hips forward, rutting helplessly.

With a guttural cry, his sex violently releases. Spent and shuddering, a mess of milky fluid spreading between his knees.

The human whimpered pathetically, weak and utterly spent, panting for breath. The crowd hissed and shrieked in delight, exploding with new inquiries.

How many gaks to rent him? Was this human thing for sale? Others reach out to poke and bruise the shivering body on the table. His mind is elsewhere, not here. Sendak focuses the Druid’s eye on the man and attempts to probe his mind. Through layers of panic and the rapid beating of the man’s heart, he hears the words echoing at the edge of his consciousness. The faintest whisper lingers there, a sacred mantra clutching for dear life.

_Takashi. My name is Takashi. My name is Takashi. My name is…_

Sendak hums. Will wonders never cease?


	6. What's in a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro is ready for review.

The human’s skin burned.

The very much alive _lementhe_ still lodged within him had to be extracted. Forgoing the forceps, Sendak wasted no time yanking down his trousers and violently fucking him then and there on the exam table. The human’s ragged screams echo loudly, urging his thrusts until he shudders and releases inside him.

The human’s red blood stains his cock when he withdraws. Taking it in his fist, he drags the human’s head up by his hair.

“Clean.” He orders.

The human was only half aware. He gags at the heavy smell but manages to drag its hot, wet tongue across his shaft, swiping away blood and remnants of his seed. Sendak grinned. He’d become hard all over again but the human was barely conscious. Not that consciousness is terribly important but he does prefer reactions from his sport. 

Ribbons of blood trickle down the man’s legs as he is forced shakily to his feet. 

For all the attention lavished on him, the man has proven resilient. He’s lost consciousness only once and that had been the fault of the collar around his neck and an overzealous guest. He was quickly brought round by a blast of water from a cleaning hose, coughing and spluttering. Damage he could sustain. 

He has proven himself more than ready for the Pit.

“Place him back in holding dock. Leave ointment.” He commands the sentries once all the guests have departed. 

Tomorrow he will be ready to begin training.”

“Your name, soldier.” Sendak commands. “Is a privilege you have too long enjoyed. You must learn to do without it should you choose to remain breathing. If one merely survives the Arena, none will recall you and when none recall you, you will be discarded. You exist to earn Glory for your masters. Only if you rise among the ranks will you again be granted the honor of a name. Forget the one Earth gave you. It is no longer relevant.”

The man stares down at the weapon Sendak thrusts in his hands. He blinks, confused.

“My name is AGHK--.” He gasps when the collar around his neck sparks to life, silencing him.

“You were not given leave to speak.” Sendak folds his hands behind his back.


End file.
